“I normally don’t bother with house clearance, but this woman seems to know what she’s talking about: she mutters about white labels and picture sleeves and all sorts of other things that suggest we’re not just talking about half a dozen scratched Electric Light Orchestra records that her son left behind when he moved out. Her house is enormous, the sort of place that seems to have meandered to Wood Green from another part of London, and she’s not very nice. She’s mid-to-late forties, with a dod...gy tan and a suspiciously taut-looking face; and though she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the jeans have the name of an Italian where the name of Mr. Wrangler or Mr. Levi should be, and the T-shirt has a lot of jewelry stuck to the front of it, arranged in the shape of a peace sign. She doesn’t smile, or offer me a cup of coffee, or ask me whether I found the place OK despite the freezing, driving rain that prevented me from seeing the street map in front of my face. She just shows me into a study off the hall, turns the light on, and points out the singles—there are hundreds of them, all in custom-made wooden boxes—on the top shelf, and leaves me to get on with it.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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